


Gas Station Confessional

by bitochondria



Category: Miami Vice (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Orientation Rico Tubbs, Bisexual Sonny Crockett, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e22 Evan, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Near Feelings Realization, POV Third Person Limited, Rico can't spit it out, Smoking, Sonny has a lot of past trauma, Tubbs' perspective on Evan, developing feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitochondria/pseuds/bitochondria
Summary: The appearance of an old friend causes Crockett to spiral into depression, and Tubbs suspects there's more to the story than he's letting on. Whether he's muddling his own feelings into this mix is another story-- one he isn't yet ready to tell even himself.(The events of Season 1, Episode 22, Evan, filtered through Tubbs' perspective.)
Relationships: (implied developing feelings), Sonny Crockett/Ricardo Tubbs
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	Gas Station Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a follow-up to [Ashes in a Goldfish Bowl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22881829), although not a its not a necessary pre-reading. (It does, however, set up Crockett as also being attracted to Tubbs, so if you're into mutual pining, that's the good shit, man.) 
> 
> Is there any other way to read Evan than as Crockett struggling with being a closeted bisexual? If there is, it's... definitely not as strong a reading as that one. I did a little [meta on this (with gifs!)](https://twitter.com/SharkskyNHutch/status/1243243650328510464?s=20) a while back, if anyone's interested.

It didn't take the world's greatest detective (or even, as Tubbs' favorite mug proclaimed, the "#1 COP") to figure out that Sonny wasn't exclusively attracted to women. Tubbs had seen the looks Crockett gave certain men, slightly furtive all-over glances from beneath long eyelashes. He had noticed the times his partner smiled a little softly at a guy, more on one side than the other, before licking the end of a cigarette and placing it pointedly in his mouth. He had picked up on the less-than-subtle arc of Crockett’s eyes behind sunglasses when anyone, male or female, in a nice swimsuit walked past them. In fact, he had initially assumed it was kind of an open secret— there had been a guy like that on the squad in New York, after all— but Metro-Dade’s official policy on gay cops was apparently a bit less enlightened. 

Tubbs couldn’t care less who Crockett wanted to fuck; that was his business. If he wanted to keep it a secret, that was his business, too. And besides— if he was being honest with himself, Tubbs wasn’t  _ entirely _ immune to the allure of a firm male posterior, either. Sometimes  _ fine  _ was just  _ fine  _ no matter whose fine-ness it was. So whatever Crockett’s romantic baggage was, it wasn’t an issue.

What  _ was _ an issue was whatever baggage was between Crockett and Evan Freed. Since they had met him at Guzman’s, Sonny had been beyond prickly— the man had been downright toxic. He had bitten everyone at the precinct’s head off— including Castillo’s, a sure sign of madness— and refused to explain to anyone why he was being such a touchy sonuvabitch. Fearing the possibility of a major blow-out down the line, Tubbs asked Gina to pull his file. After all— if this guy shot Elvis The First, or something, it would be helpful to know that before Sonny tried to turn Evan into a pair of revenge loafers. 

When she uncovered that Freed had gone off the deep end after some other cop he and Sonny knew was killed, that seemed like enough of a lead. The circumstances surrounding this third man’s death were probably also what had set Evan on his own highway to hell, and were just as likely what was making Sonny into a human pincushion, too. He had neither the time nor the inclination to pull Orgel’s jacket; he figured once he put the name out there, Sonny would spill. He usually did— he might not always be  _ initially _ forthcoming, but it wasn’t that hard to bait him into a confession. 

Instead, the very mention of Mike Orgel caused Sonny to nearly wreck the damn car; he pulled off the road and immediately began berating Tubbs for crossing a line and getting into his personal business. Tubbs was taken completely off his guard— this was his standard operating procedure, and Sonny knew it. On top of that, they had always been pretty honest with each other about anything that might fuck up a case— sometimes it took a little prodding, but they could usually shake each others’ secrets loose. 

When Tubbs tried to explain, Crockett had just looked like he was going to either punch him in the jaw or cry— or hell, maybe both— and argued that he didn’t owe Tubbs any soul-searching. 

Tubbs had snapped, and like some dumb kid whose buddy wouldn’t let him join his peewee baseball team, threatened to end their friendship. Crockett had agreed, and they had driven in increasingly uncomfortable silence to the meet-up with Guzman. 

It was only then, as strained silence descended between them, that it dawned on Tubbs that Crockett’s romantic baggage and his Evan baggage might be related. Something about his secrecy spoke of a kind of hurt that, for lack of a subtler phrase, dare not speak its name. He glanced surreptitiously at Crockett’s face as they passed under streetlights, his eyes a little glassy, his jaw tight, his lower lip jutted out. He thought about how Crockett had had some weird private conversation with Castillo earlier, and had left in a huff afterwards. He thought about the specific language he had used— ‘baring his soul,’ that Tubbs wasn’t his ‘priest.’ 

Well.

_ Fuck him either way. _

If Crockett wanted to throw away their friendship over an ex-boyfriend or whatever the hell Evan or Mike or whoever was to him, that was his choice. That he’d rather keep his secrets than his friends was the dumbest damn thing Tubbs had ever heard, but fine, whatever, they could just be colleagues. 

Every time he looked at him for the rest of the night, he contemplated punching him in the teeth. At the meet-up, in the car again, getting dropped off in the parking lot of the bar: all great places to sock his partner one. It had worked well enough when they had first met, after all.

And how little must Crockett think of him, he fumed, watching Crockett speed off from the bar, tossing a cigarette butt behind him, to think he'd  _ care _ if he had fooled around with some friend from the academy. He was his  _ partner _ . And he wasn't some goddamn neanderthal, clomping around calling people fairies and faggots, so why the hell should Crockett assume that's how he'd feel?

Still fizzing with anger, Tubbs threw himself into the task of finding a nice girl to chat up. If he was lucky, maybe she'd even have a car and be able to drive him home, since his  _ ride _ drove off without him, the asshole. Champagne in hand, he hit it off with a gorgeous young thing named Michelle, and was just about to seal the deal when Crockett trudged back into the club, looking like a man headed for the gallows. 

Hands in his pockets, pouting, interrupting the good thing he had going. 

He could hang, for all Tubbs cared. 

He breathed in through his nose, teeth clenched. Okay. Maybe not hang. But he could sweat it out a little, at least. He wasn't going to ruin the rest of Tubbs' night with his glowering and snapping. They could argue the whole damn thing out in the morning, and then Tubbs would decide whether or not to forgive the bastard.

So when he pleaded, with that hang-dog expression, “I need to talk to you,” Tubbs just let him sweat.

_ Hell no _ , he thought.  _ Not here, not now _ . 

He continued the line from earlier— that they were done being friends.

“You know where my desk is.” He busied his hands before saying anything else, because what he  _ really  _ wanted to say was likely to get them kicked out of the club. He thought about how to twist the knife without ending up in a fist fight over his champagne. “Office hours are from nine to five,  _ partner _ .”

Crockett responded with an excuse, and not even a good one. Tubbs bit the inside of his cheek and broke off their eye contact, unable to say anything constructive. 

Except. 

He glanced at Crockett again, glaring from the corners of his eyes.

Fuck did the asshole look like he was going to go jump in a lake. Like he was out of crazy glue from trying to piece his heart back together. Like if Tubbs didn’t listen to him, he might do something really, really dumb. 

This was actual, serious shit, and suddenly Tubbs felt like somehow  _ he _ was the jerk. 

“Gimme a chance to explain,” Sonny entreated, very quiet, very unassuming. He didn’t think Tubbs was going to say yes. 

Michelle sat back down, and before Tubbs had a chance to respond to either of them, Sonny was halfway out the door. 

Tubbs cursed his luck, apologized to Michelle, and chased Sonny out to the parking lot.

Sonny was leaning on the trunk of his car, looking out into the street. He had a cigarette in his hand, but it was unlit. His other hand hovered near his pocket, holding his lighter, but he seemed to be frozen, unable to bring the two together. Light from a passing car illuminated him, blowing up the white in his jacket, but he remained unmoving. 

Tubbs crossed his arms and approached him. 

“So.”

Sonny turned and looked at him. He blinked with surprise, and then looked down at the ground. Unfrozen, he lit his cigarette. 

“Explain, then.”

Taking a long drag, Sonny looked back out on the road. “If you want to wait until later, so you n’ your lady friend can…”

“It’s fine. I already told her I’d take a rain check.”

Sonny nodded, chewing at his lip. “Can I bring you somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” Tubbs joked, trying to lighten things up a little, “Is this like a ‘meet me in the lot behind the meat packing plant for a beating’ kind of bring me somewhere?”

“No,” Sonny sighed, expression fixed. “I just… think I might be able to explain it better there.”

Tubbs shrugged and nodded. “Okay, then.”

The drive was too quiet, and Sonny drove too fast. Faster than his usual kind of ‘too fast.’ He kept looking out the open window, hands tight on the wheel, unable to look at Tubbs or say a word. By the time they arrived at their destination— an abandoned gas station— Tubbs was half-expecting Sonny to tell him  _ he _ had killed Mike Orgel.

What he wasn’t expecting to hear was that Mike Orgel had killed himself.

But maybe he should have been— things started to click into place as soon as Crockett explained, looking at the concrete like he hoped it would swallow him. Freed’s file had said he had transferred to another squad before Orgel had supposedly died in the line of duty, but the dates had lined up: it was after Orgel’s death that he had started taking on suicide missions. If Orgel merely died in the line of duty, then Evan’s lack of self-preservation tasted like burnout, or the guilt of not protecting a partner. If he killed himself, Evan’s behavior took on a significantly different tone. Either he somehow felt guilty about Orgel’s suicide, or Orgel’s death  _ broke _ him. 

The thought that maybe this was significantly more personal than a falling out of friends surfaced once again, and Tubbs started to ask—

“Were you two guys…” 

_ What?  _

_ Fucking? _

_ In love? _

Tubbs immediately realized how stupid that line of questioning was. Even if that  _ was  _ the case, which in all likelihood it wasn’t, asking now wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He needed to let Sonny tell his story. 

“...tight?”

_ Real smooth.  _

But Sonny didn’t notice or didn’t care. 

He explained how he and Mike and Evan had been best friends (a picture Tubbs could not piece together; either Evan truly must have fucked his personality up beyond repair, or Crockett used to be way more of a jackass), and how everything fell apart. When he was finally ready to say the words he was avoiding— the words Tubbs had already been half-expecting— he still gestured and alluded for a while before he got there. At last, Crockett explained that they had been staking out gay bars and that Mike wanted off the case, and as the he made his admission, he looked a little like he wanted to drink from the gas pump.

Tubbs had never been asked to work entrapment for gay cruisers and hustlers— New York was mostly done with that, these days, at least on a large scale— but he knew guys who had. If Crockett was saying what he thought he might be saying, then he could easily imagine what Orgel must have been thinking. Being asked to rat out your own people was a special kind of shattering.

“Evan starts razzin’ him, y’know,” Crockett paused, smiling with strained conspiracy, like he wanted Tubbs to feel like they were in on the same joke. “Good natured stuff. Sayin’ stuff like… Mike would be afraid someone would recognize him.”

Standard posturing asshole cop stuff, but still hurtful if it turned out to be true. On the other hand, It was hard to show affection when just  _ being _ affectionate could make you suspect, and Tubbs had known a lot of guys who could only tell you they liked you by taking the piss out of you. Sometimes, when you were ribbing a guy, you were really saying:  _ I know you better than anyone else. I know what makes you tick. And I know you’ll know you’re in on the joke. _

“Then he went and told us the truth,” Crockett whispered, the smile peeling from his face. “Somebody  _ would _ recognize him.” As if this wasn’t clear enough, he added, “He was in the closet.”

And then for good measure: “He was gay.”

Either Sonny was so nervous he was having the verbal runs, or he must’ve really thought Tubbs was a square. Who was so out of touch that they didn’t know what the damn closet was? No wonder he figured he might react poorly.

And then Sonny just stared at him, like that was the end of the story.

In some ways, it was. Tubbs could piece the rest of it together. They had a falling out, Evan took a long walk out to the funny farm, and Crockett had more or less moved on with his life. But it didn’t really get to the heart of the matter— that none of them had gotten out of this intact. Tubbs was reasonably certain by this point that Sonny and Mike hadn’t been a  _ thing _ . The hurt behind the story of Mike’s revelation felt real. But it didn’t change the fact that he was  _ also _ still reasonably certain that Sonny wasn’t straight, and that the measure of hurt he felt then— and now— wasn’t just for Mike.

He wondered if Sonny would be willing to approach that truth with him, and if maybe that truth was part of why he and Evan couldn’t look each other in the eye.

“How’d you handle it?” 

Sonny was quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was an admission of guilt. 

“I didn’t.” He bit his lip, fidgeting, and turned away before leaving the gas pump confessional. Eyes towards the horizon, and then on the ground, he explained how he just wasn’t equipped to deal with the situation, not at the time. And then he plopped down on the ground, elbows on his knees. 

The unspoken subtext: if it had happened  _ now _ , he might have the wherewithal to deal. 

Tubbs could see that. If tomorrow one of the members of their squad came out as gay, Tubbs couldn’t imagine Crockett wouldn’t fight like hell to defend them. Even if it meant making himself a target. 

He made a useless attempt at comforting him, but now Sonny was off and rolling. 

Evan’s response to all this, Sonny described, the word ‘faggot’ like acid in his mouth, was to harass and ridicule Orgel. And then to transfer out of vice altogether. That tracked more with the Evan he had met at Guzman’s than the Evan who had been one of Crockett’s ‘musketeers.’ The idea of hating someone  _ that much _ for something as stupid as who they wanted to fuck— 

Tubbs couldn’t muster any sympathy for Evan. 

But for Sonny, who had apparently lost both his best friends at the same time, he felt an enormous rush of heartbreak and affection. He found himself frozen, watching Sonny stiffly from the curb. 

He swallowed and asked the last question, even though he knew the answer already. “What about Orgel?”

Sonny’s answer was a second confession. What Mike did didn’t really matter— he had been backed into a corner. He had been out of options. But what Sonny had done— nothing— was still eating away at him. It might always. 

“I failed,” Sonny concluded, his face slack with exhaustion. He had the eyes of a man who expected his own failures to come back on him tenfold; eyes struck lightless with the knowledge that the system he served would never serve men like himself. He would never forgive his own complicity, and he would always dispassionately expect complicity from others.

Tubbs unfroze himself. He slid down the gas pump and sat beside his friend, refusing to fulfill these expectations. He wondered about the appropriateness of putting his arm around him. Would it make him feel seen and understood? Or would it scare him off, and stem this growing tide of vulnerability?

He pictured Sonny’s shoulders stiffening at his touch, the contact between them making all of this too awkward for him to bear. It would be the end of the conversation, and anything he said after that point would be pablum. 

So he just talked at him, instead. Babbling. Assuring Sonny that  _ he _ forgave him, and that sometimes it was enough to just feel the right way, when no one had taught you how to act. Sonny balked, and Tubbs kept talking. He tried to make it clear that he really did understand, really, that he knew it was a failure of will— a product of fear— and not a failure of ethics or morals or, hell, a failure of love. 

But how could he make him understand what he was really trying to say without saying it out loud?

How could he tell him he knew where the core of Sonny’s fear came from, and that he  _ didn’t care at all _ , without admitting he had clocked him months ago?

How could he make it sound like it wasn’t an accusation?

He couldn’t manage it. He didn’t have the words to say it directly.

So instead Tubbs said something about Sonny having a certain  _ something _ in his heart, and how he, too, knew this  _ something _ and knew that it mattered. It was vague and rambling, but Tubbs was barely hearing his own words— he just wanted his partner to feel less like a failure. Less alone. 

There was silence, as Sonny looked down at the concrete. 

With aching doubt, Sonny whispered, “I don’t know.”

“You better know,” Tubs warned, suddenly angry. Not at Sonny— Sonny was angry enough at himself for the both of them. Angry at Evan. Angry at the department. Angry that Orgel had felt he had to  _ die _ because of who he was attracted to. Angry that Sonny had been placed in such a painful position, where he had to doubt his strength and his loyalty because of the same thing.

But threatening him wasn’t exactly going to get his point across. 

He tried to lighten the mood a little.

“‘Cause I don’t pass up beautiful girls like Michelle for nothing less.” 

In less than a second, when his brain caught up to his mouth, Tubbs realized that this kind of sounded like a come-on— the absolute least appropriate thing to say to a man in pain. He prayed Crockett was too out of it to hear anything but the intended sentiment. 

The corners of Sonny’s mouth turned up, and he looked at Tubbs, suddenly bathed in relief. Understanding and recognition dawned; he knew he was forgiven. He started laughing, the kind of half-hearted wheeze that comes after crying. Tubbs fiddled with his hands, continuing to weigh the merits of touch. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to throw an arm around his shoulder or rub his back or grab his hand— what if Sonny misinterpreted it? Or worse, what if it made him feel self-conscious? What if it made Sonny rethink every other time they had already touched— if it made him feel it wasn’t safe for him to ever do it again, now that he had been implicated in somebody’s queerness?

“Y’know something, Tubbs?” Crockett rumbled, a smile in his voice for the first time in two days.

Tubbs stopped overthinking and just listened.

“You ain’t half bad,” he grinned, admitting in some small way that he hadn’t expected this much understanding. 

“Ditto,” Tubbs blurted, and then patted Sonny on the arm, just for a second. He breathed in through his nose. It was hard to suppress the urge to just hug him, or to say, ‘hey man, I know you’re into guys and that complicates your feelings on all this, but I’m completely fine with that and still want to be your friend,’ but he kept the mushiness to a minimum. That could be a conversation for another time, when Sonny wasn’t feeling quite so skittish.

Instead, he suggested, “Now you can drive your tired partner home.” 

Sonny’s exhaustion was visible in every line on his face, but he grinned, lopsided and almost like the usual. He threw his arm over Tubbs and blinked at him a little like a cat, all tired unspoken affection. Tubbs put his hand on Sonny’s knee and squeezed. 

For the rest of the night, Sonny seemed okay. They talked, normally, on the drive home. He gave Tubbs a friendly slap on the back when he dropped him off at home. This normalcy continued into the next day, and when they sat down to work through the next steps in the case together, Sonny seemed very nearly his jocular, sarcastic self. 

Until Evan stumbled, drunk almost to the point of collapse, into the precinct. Against Tubbs’ recommendation, Crockett pulled him into the conference room and shut the door. An offer to join him for backup was rebuffed, and Tubbs found himself instead tapping a pencil on his desk, trying to develop x-ray vision. He didn’t trust Evan not to say something that was going to put Crockett right back where he was last night. Hell, he didn’t  _ really _ trust Evan not to pull a gun on him— the man was clearly unhinged. 

Tubbs glanced at the clock. 

Enough was enough. 

He put his mug and his pencil down on the desk and strode over to the conference room door. His hand was on the handle already when it occurred to him that no matter what Evan might be saying or doing, he and Crockett had a history. One Crockett’s new partner might never be truly privy to. He took his hand off the knob and knocked. 

No one responded, and his restraint dissolved. He opened the door.

Evan moved abruptly away from Sonny, turning his back to him. He sniffed, wetly, more like a man who had been crying than coking. Sonny stood stiffly with his hands hovering in the air in front of him, at waist height, his eyes glued to Tubbs like a cornered animal. Immediately Evan affected an air of overblown machismo, crashing into Tubbs as he made his way out the door. The man smelled like every kind of regret. 

Tubbs looked up at Sonny.

The look of fear had sloughed off him, and now he just seemed wounded. 

Last night, Tubbs had been reasonably certain that whatever had happened with Evan and Mike and Sonny, it hadn’t been romantic. Crockett’s assertion that he and Evan had learned about Mike’s homosexuality at the same time seemed honest and unrehearsed. But now, seeing the tail end of whatever he had just seen, he couldn’t help but wonder— could Crockett and  _ Evan _ have…? 

It would certainly add another layer of hurt to Crockett’s feelings of betrayal. 

But on the other hand, Crockett’s description of Evan’s homophobia sounded closer to the violent gay-bashing kind than the defensive self-hating kind. And besides— Sonny had to have better taste than that, right?

Tubbs swallowed. A little too late, a thought drifted into his mind—  _ why does it matter? Why do you care if Sonny was involved with one of his friends seven years ago? _ — and he felt his face going warm. Some friend he was, speculating on Sonny’s love life while he was looking at the table like he hoped the floor beneath it would open up and take him.

He asked, finally, what had happened, and Sonny shook his head. His explanation— that Evan was at the end of his rope, looking for absolution— got a little too Catholic for a second, and Tubbs was brought back to his  _ priest _ comment in the car. Sonny’s guilt and Evan’s guilt were two strands in the same braid of rope, and it was strangling them both. 

_What are the odds,_ something whispered at the back of his skull, _that you get three Vice detectives, all working together, and not a heterosexual among them?_ _Could you be totally misinterpreting all this? What makes you think you know Sonny well enough to know which way he swings?_

He thought about one of his friends back in New York, a Vietnamese Buddhist who ran a vegetarian restaurant. Lanh was about as gay as they came, and an accounting of his friends would tally about a single hand’s worth of straight people, even if Tubbs counted himself. And if he was being honest, he probably  _ shouldn’t _ count himself in that group, even if on a day to day basis he might want to. It was like any subgroup— people tended to find their people. 

_ Unless you’re making a lot of assumptions and some of this is just wishful thinking _ .

Tubbs screwed his face up at his own thoughts.

Wishful thinking?

He glanced at Crocket, still looking forlornly at his hands on the table.

_ Yeah right.  _

He sure as hell wasn’t going to bark up the closeted white boy tree, least of all with his damn partner. 

He shepherded Sonny out of the conference room and himself out of the part of his mind where bad decisions were born, just in time for Castillo to call them to a meeting. 

The department spent the rest of the afternoon planning a sting that would satisfy their goals and the goals of the ATF simultaneously. They couldn’t arrest Guzman, but they needed to get the guns off the street— so Gina, Trudy, Switek, and Zito would pose as dirty cops and “confiscate” both the guns and money. The plan wasn’t perfect, and they went back and forth for a while on whether to “arrest” Crockett and Tubbs or not. If they did arrest them, the supposed corruption of the “bad cops” would be called into question and Evan might be placed in a difficult situation left alone with Guzman. If they didn’t, Tubbs and Crockett had no extraction, and Guzman might assume they had been the ones to tip off the cops. Internally, Tubbs was on team “screw Evan,” but he kept his mouth shut. Trying to take Crockett’s feelings into account, he suggested they stay and make a big fuss, then storm off before Guzman had a chance to really think through his suspicions. The whole time they planned, Crockett silently chain-smoked, staring off into the middle distance. 

On the way out of the conference room, Gina put her hand on Crockett’s shoulder. He didn’t  _ quite _ flinch. 

“We’re going out for lunch. You coming?”

Switek pointed at Tubbs. “We’re checking out the new Filipino place down past Frank’s garage.” 

Tubbs raised his eyebrows at Crockett, smiling for the both of them. “I’m in.”

“You guys go have fun,” Crockett insisted. “I’ve got some stuff to catch up on.”

“You should come with us,” Tubbs insisted. Sonny wasn’t going to feel any better moping around the precinct. He stood up and nodded, grinning as he followed the others out. “Catch up in a sec.” 

Sonny watched them leave, smiling with nothing behind his eyes.

Tubbs tilted his head slightly, standing by his partner’s side. “Seriously. We all need to eat, right?”

“I brought a sandwich,” he shrugged, eyes on the space between the window and the people behind it. He turned to Tubbs and admitted, “I can’t.” He shook his head slightly, drawing his mouth up. “I just… need a little time to think.” 

“Okay,” Tubbs nodded. He brushed his knuckles against Sonny’s shoulder. A little softer, and lingering a little longer than a friendly punch. “You want me to stay, too?”

Sonny shook his head. “Go.” He managed a weak crinkle of his eyes. “You shouldn’t miss out ‘cause I’m a bum.”

“You want me to bring you back something?”

“Nah,” Sonny grunted. “Thanks, though.”

“Alright. Don’t sit around listening to The Cure, okay?”

Sonny half-smiled and flipped him off. 

Tubbs slapped him on the shoulder and started to make his way out, but Sonny caught his sleeve as he turned.

“Hey.” Sonny’s eyes arced from one side to the other, passing over Tubbs’ face and landing on the map of Florida to his right. “Please don’t…” He let go and brushed the hair off his forehead. “The others don’t need the backstory, okay? If they ask, I’ve got digestive troubles or a bad hangover or something.”

“Of course.” He looked Sonny squarely in the eye. “I’m not going to out you like that.”

His stomach flipped. That wasn’t the wording he should have used. 

For a second, Sonny got that cornered look he had had on and off since the first meeting with Guzman, pupils sharp points in his green eyes. 

Tubbs wasn’t sure how to back out of his unfortunate phrasing without making it worse, so he tried to make his facial expression as neutral and empty as he could. Let Sonny think he was just being dumb, not accusatory. 

Sonny’s jaw softened, and then with a flurry of blinks, he looked away. 

He sighed. “Rico, I hate this. I thought I was done with all this bullshit.” He shook his head and looked at the conference table. Before Tubbs could respond, he dismissed him. “Go eat lunch. Have fun.” 

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Sonny waved him off. “I’m sure I’ll have brushed all this shit off by the time you get back.”

Tubbs hesitated, but acquiesced. He couldn’t exactly drag Sonny with him, and he wasn’t going to stay behind trying to convince him to talk about his feelings. “Okay, man.”

“See you soon.”

They nodded at each other, and Tubbs left the conference room. He caught up with Gina, who was waiting by the door with an expression of concern. The others were already outside, but she tipped her head to one side and asked, very quietly, “Is he okay?” 

Tubbs shrugged. “We got kinda tanked last night and he’s been feeling shitty since he woke up.” 

“He’s not upset about something?” 

Biting down slightly on the tip of his tongue before he spoke, Tubbs made another attempt at empty-headed neutrality. His coworkers were going to think he was concussed if he kept having to play dumb like this. “Nah. Just ordered too many B-52’s too late in the evening.”

Gina squinted slightly, her mouth twisting up to one side. “Nothing to do with the file I pulled yesterday?” 

“Why would Evan Freed’s jacket make Sonny upset?”

“Uh-huh. Why did Evan Freed come in here drunk and ambush Sonny?” 

“‘Cause he’s a human bar toilet and he thinks we’re going to screw up with Guzman.” 

Gina looked unconvinced, but stepped out into the sun with the others. Tubbs fielded a few more versions of the same question with the rest of the squad, playing dumb, and tucked into a nice plate of pancit, slices of egg subbed for shrimp. As he ate, he nodded and laughed and pretended he was listening, still fixated on Crockett and Evan and whatever ‘Crockett and Evan’ was or had once been. He kept thinking about what he thought he might have seen as he opened the door to the conference room, Sonny’s hand on the back of Evan’s neck, then pressed to the middle of his chest, then gone, all in the space of a millisecond. Like Crockett had been  _ holding _ him. 

The idea of Evan’s hands on Crockett made his skin crawl. 

Whatever their past history, Tubbs couldn’t picture Evan ever being kind enough or  _ soft _ enough for Sonny. Crockett liked to talk tough, but the man fell  _ easy _ , and he got so damn vulnerable so damn fast. A man like Evan would hollow him out from the inside. 

When everyone returned from lunch, Sonny was sitting alone in the conference room, writing something. The lights were off. So much for brushing it off.

Gina gave Tubbs a tired, unblinking stare. 

“Some hangover, huh?”

Tubbs opened his mouth to respond, but she was walking away, a sigh trailing behind her. 

The rest of the day passed like glass in cold-cream. Swathes of frigid sterility were broken up at intervals by cutting remarks and explosions of keen-edged anger; if Sonny wasn’t silently glowering, he was kicking chairs and throwing stacks of paper on the floor.

As much as it pained him to admit it, Tubbs couldn’t help but think maybe Sonny and Evan needed to actually sit down and talk through their feelings like adults. 

He spent the time between leaving the precinct and landing at the meet site psyching himself up to say it, even though he absolutely did not want to. After all, Sonny wasn’t going to react well, and he had been yelled at enough the past few days. 

And if Sonny did try to confront Evan about it, it’s not like  _ Evan _ was going to react well, either. 

And assuming they  _ did _ manage to sit down and talk it out, where would they even go from there? It’s not like they would ever really be friends again. 

And yet, every time Tubbs started to say something, he pictured Crockett’s hand on the back of Evan’s neck, and his stomach rolled.

Strolling out into the junkyard, Crockett walking beside him like a bunched up wad of pastel-blue and white sticky notes, Tubbs swallowed his pride and admitted that, just maybe, he might be the tiniest bit jealous.

“God, I hate the waiting more than anything,” Crockett grumbled, one hand jammed in his pocket, the other crushing the bent butt of a cigarette. 

Tubbs took a deep breath. He needed to say it, even if it might mean Sonny would flip out. Even if it might mean Sonny might decide to repair his friendship with Evan. 

He glanced at him over his shoulder. “You’ve both been living with it all this time. It’s been eating away at you.” Crockett wouldn’t look at him. Tubbs fidgeted nervously, rapidly passing a die that had been in his pocket back and forth between his hands. “Well now’s your chance to lay it to rest.” He swallowed, and turned away, giving Sonny space to formulate a response.

“I can’t.”

Tubbs’ head snapped back. 

Crockett looked straight ahead, pain and resignation warring in his expression. 

“You got the courage to do this job every day,” Tubbs sighed, nudging into accusatory territory. “Have the courage to tell Evan what it is you have to say.”

Not that he had the courage to get into specifics himself. 

Crockett looked at the nub of his cigarette and eked out another drag. “I’ll think about it.”

Tubbs looked off to the left. This would be so much easier if he didn’t have to speak in code. 

“If we pull this off, you may not see him again.”

“If we don’t, it won’t matter.” Crockett’s response was flat— so flat, so resigned, that Tubbs briefly considered telling him to go back to the precinct and wait for him, lest he decide to catch a bullet or lie down in front of Guzman’s car. 

Almost immediately, things went bad. After the rest of the squad left with the arms and money, Guzman must’ve put two and two together— trying to leave as quickly as possible, Tubbs missed the moment when it happened, but he drew his gun on Sonny. Evan ended up between them, and fell to the ground.

They took out Guzman, and Sonny scrambled to Evan’s side.

Tubbs ran to check Guzman’s body. From the car, he couldn’t hear what Evan was saying, but Crockett’s expression, and the way he held onto Evan as his eyes started to close, told him everything he needed to know. 

He placed his hand on Sonny’s shoulder, and Sonny jumped. He looked up at Tubbs like he was the one who had been shot, a wounded animal, shock expanding his pupils to black saucers. Tubbs knelt down beside him in the gravel and placed his hand on the small of his back. He was shaking, mouth open, blood on his hands and his legs and his jacket. 

“Rico…”

Tubbs rubbed the space below Sonny’s shoulder blades, quickly becoming clammy as his shivering progressed to a cold sweat. “We need to call in. Can you go do that?”

Sonny looked at Evan’s body, resting on his knees. 

“I don’t want to leave him.” 

Tubbs’ jaw clenched involuntarily. “If I go do it, are you going to be okay here?”

Sonny nodded weakly.

Tubbs stood up and sprinted back to the car. He smeared blood on the door handle— he didn’t remember touching blood— as he opened it, and checked his other hand before grabbing the radio. 

As usual, Castillo was unreadable without being able to see his body language, but he didn’t seem thrilled. 

Frankly, he didn’t care that much.

He ran back to Sonny, who was exactly where he left him, holding Evan Freed like the goddamn pietà. He glanced up at Tubbs and rubbed his face against the inside of his sleeve. Tubbs knelt across from him, on the other side of Evan, and placed his hand where his neck and shoulder met. He looked at Sonny’s face until he made eye contact, red and runny.

“This isn’t your fault.”

“I know.” Sonny’s jaw twitched. “I know.” He looked down and swallowed, blinking rapidly. 

He had nothing else to say until they were leaving the precinct.

They had reported everything, argued fruitlessly with the ATF, and gotten changed into less bloody clothes. It was almost dawn. 

Tubbs touched the back of Crockett’s arm. “You want me to drive you home?” 

He shook his head, silent and black-eyed, staring at the surface of his desk.

And then he opened his mouth, just slightly, and turned to look at Tubbs. 

“Can we just… drive?” 

Tubbs thought briefly about letting Castillo know they probably weren’t going to be in tomorrow, and if they were, they weren’t going to be functional— and then he nodded, instead.

He clasped his hand to the back of Sonny’s neck. Fuck worrying about how anyone might interpret or misinterpret him touching his friend. Fuck everyone who had put Sonny in this situation. He looked him dead in the eye. 

“Let’s drive, Partner.”


End file.
